Keeping the Distance
by summerr13
Summary: He's been distancing himself for years, but there are some distances that can't/won't be allowed.  FHawke/Anders, happens sometime in Act 2.
1. Chapter 1

Keeping the Distance 25/09/2011 20:52:00

Disclaimer: I do not, and will never own any characters or other important things related to Dragon Age/Bioware.

This is a fHawke rogue/Anders story, taking place sometime during Act 2. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 1:<p>

He's been distancing himself for years.

"Merrill…is there anything you can do?" I ask with pleading eyes.

He's been distancing himself from me for years, three for specifics. This, though, is a distance I cannot, will not allow.

Merrill's eyes grow dim, "Hawke…I'm sorry…," the beginnings of tears forming in those green depths.

Staring down at the man who's saved many, the one who's always pushed himself for the sake of others, I feel so helpless. I want to hammer my fists onto his chest, for being foolish, for adopting a cause that will inevitable cost him his life. I shudder at the thought. _Not today though._ But how does one heal a healer?

'_It doesn't always take magic to heal.'_

His voice rushes within my thoughts, and I remember those times spent in his clinic, my attendance pointless, but he had always insisted on my help. So I stayed, because of his insistence, but mainly just to admire him while he worked. Didn't realize it would amount to anything.

I place my head against his chest, the soft thuds increasing growing distant, as like his breathing. My hands find their way to his chest, resting at the bone between his pectorals; and I force his chest to deepen under the pressure. I've seen him do this on few occasions, when mana was sparse. I don't know if what I'm doing is remotely up to standard, but I figure anything is better than nothing.

_10…20…30…_

"Aveline…" I say through ragged breathes, "gather all the healing poultices you can find, and bring them here."

I settle myself by his head, and stare at his mouth. It's slightly open and I hesitate because this isn't how I pictured how our mouths would meet for the first time—slow, passionate. I resign myself from thinking anymore on it. Pinching his nose, I force air into his mouth, his chest rising and then falling.

Aveline returns, hastily placing four poultices in front for me to see. "Pour them on his wounds," I command, before positioning myself back to his chest.

My hair has fallen in front of my face, obscuring the sorrowed-filled glances of my companions. I don't let their gazes threaten my task at hand, and my body works fervently to bring this man back.

_Maker please… Not him… Don't take him._ I find myself praying, something I don't do often. Not that I have lost faith that he can't do anything in my favor. It's just I want to believe that all those times he has forsaken me, that this is the one time he won't.

"Hawke…" Varric says, his voice so forlorn. I shake my head at his implication.

"No." I whisper, more for myself. I'm not giving up, not until he looks into my eyes, not before he says my name, not before I scold him for being so reckless.

The minutes roll by, the situation remains unchanged, and I hope that the effort I'm putting forth can account for that. Exhaustion is settling in, but I continue relentlessly; forcing his heart to pump, forcing his lungs to breathe.

A hand rests gently on my shoulder, "he's gone, Hawke," Aveline says.

_No… He can't be dead,_ the thought bringing tears to my eyes. I rest my head against his chest. Nothing.

"No…come on," my effort is faltering, "don't give up… don't… fuck you, Anders." I ball my fists, "breathe!" slamming them against his chest, blood sputtering from his mouth onto my face.

Then nothing short of a miracle… An uptake in breath.

My head snaps to his face, searching for some indication of life. A sharp intake of air, followed by a sigh. I snap back into action, frantically searching my pack for the last potion I had been saving.

I cradle his head within my lap, pushing the flask against his pale, chapped lips. "Drink," I say in a low voice, slowly letting the red fluid empty. The last drop touches his lips, and I sigh in relief. Thank the Maker.

His breathing has steadied, as his heartbeat. Varric excuses himself to find some aid, while Merrill crouches down to my level. My eyes are stinging with tears, and I turn my head to hide the pain in my face. I quickly excuse myself, missing her worried glance as I trail off.

There's a chill in the air, and it's comforting. I shiver slightly, subconsciously wrapping my arms around my waist to trap the fleeting heat. The heavy footsteps resound as they crunch over the gravel in Darktown.

"You did good, Hawke."

"I should've been there," I say, dismissing her appraisal. "I shouldn't have refused to help him."

"He's alive… you should be thankful for that." It's surprising how sincere she can be when she wants to be; A stark contradiction to the hard-ass, law-abiding person she normally is. Though, our relationship has been far from normal—we argue and fight, but somehow remain close, like family. My thoughts go out to Carver; they are alike in that way, except were they're not. Aveline is a loyalist by default, and I love her for that.

Above all else, she's right. I should feel thankful he's alive, but I can't help but think that this could've all been avoided. Maybe if I hadn't been so resentful to him.

"It's paralyzing isn't it? The feeling of losing the people you care about." I turn to look at her, my eyes stinging like mad. Her green eyes are distant as she stares out the carved window—Wesley. "It isn't my place to stop you, heading down this path you're on, just promise me one thing… Don't walk into this blindly."

I blink away the tears threatening my eyes. Aveline has never been daft, and it doesn't surprise me that she's caught on so quickly. Maybe she's been spying on me again.

She walks over to me and slaps a hand on my shoulder, because we all know she's not one to hug, or cry it out with you when you have issues. She offers a smile that contradicts what she really wants to say, 'don't do it'. But that hand has already been dealt, and there is no backing out of the inevitability of coming out the winner or loser.

"Oh and also, if he hurts you, I'm the first person that gets to ram my longsword through that rebellious mage heart of his," she says, before stalking off in the opposite direction to where I'm headed.

I climb down the passageway and I'm nervous of what I might come upon. In the few moments of my absence, something could've happened; and it doesn't help that a dozen scenarios play out in my mind. My feet quicken their pace, and I come upon Varric and Merrill, and two more faces that I'm acquainted with, barely—Anders' assistants.

Merrill offers a comforting smile, discarding my earlier concerns. And I look down at his body—his hair disheveled, blood marking his face and that ugly coat. I sigh in relief, he's unconscious but alive. The two men lift him, one cradling his shoulders the other his feet.

"Make sure you get Blondie home safely."

"No!" I say a bit to loudly then intended, and all eyes are on me questioning. "Take him to my place." The two men curtly nod, and we all make our way back to the surface.

Anders may be distancing himself from me, but I refuse to distance myself from him.

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><p>AN: This story is not intended to teach anyone about CPR. I purposely flubbed up the proper way, for this reason. If you want to learn I suggest finding someone certified to teach you.

That being said, this is my first fanfic posted. Ekk. I never thought I'd be doing this because 1.) I am no professional and 2.) I'm not about to make a career out of this; this is mainly for fun and the fact that after playing this game a thousand times over, I have non-stop plot bunnies threatening my everyday life. And also, because I heart Anders, both types.

I found it particularly difficult to write in first-person, I tried to steer clear of too many sentences beginning with 'I's. So I apologize for any errors, and if my writing is a bit disjointed. Oh and I know the title sucks, and I'm probably going to be too lazy to change it.

Anyway, I would appreciate any reviews, bad or good; just try to be gentle. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All characters and affiliated Dragon Age content are rightfully owned by Bioware. I'm just borrowing them for a bit :)

Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 2:<p>

I'm the first person he sees when he wakes, it's how I wanted it to be. His amber eyes questioning, then puzzled when he notes that he's bandaged and nearly naked, another thing I wanted.

The relief is prevalent on my face, or so I hope; because on the inside I want to cry out to him, confess that it nearly killed me, watching him fade slowly from this world, my world.

He's fingering at the bandages, glancing at my work, before looking at me in approval. "I guess not all is lost on you."

I laugh lightly, "I guess those lessons weren't so pointless as I thought."

He offers a smirk that doesn't quick reach the rest of his face. I can feel the question weighing heavily in his mind, he wants to know how bad it was. I can't. If I tell him he almost died, that he was gone for a moment, then I won't be able to stop the inevitable.

"Do you want to bathe?" I manage instead. "I can ask Bodahn to get one ready."

"That bad, huh?" he quips, feigning disgust as he sniffs at his armpit. "A bath would be appreciated."

I call for Bodahn and ask him to draw Anders a bath; he's polite as always, and I help him to speed the process and because a part of me is nervous of what I might say or do while in Anders company.

When we finish preparing the bath, I find Anders still sitting on my bed and his face grimaces with each movement. "Do you need help?" He looks to me and nods. I sit down beside him and wrap his arm around my shoulders and do my best to balance his weight with mine as we elevate from the bed.

My other arm wraps subconsciously around his waist, as we move towards the bath chamber. The added closeness doesn't help the situation, and I find myself wanting to run my hands over his chest, down his stomach, and then down.

_No._ I quickly snap the thought away, and I can't help to think of when it got this bad for me. Everyone knows I'm ridiculously flirtatious, the all talk no action type; because relationships mean sharing, and being me hasn't particularly warranted such behavior. At the start, I guess it was no different with Anders, but I'm not sure what you would call this now. We've been dancing around that line that defines us for years. Friends? Or something more?

We stop beside the bath, and I slowly drop his arm down by his side to undo the bandages across his ribs and stomach. He must of healed himself a bit while I was away; noting that the once reddened scars are now barely visible. I glance down at his smalls, "you can do the rest," I say, and I'm trying to gauge his response as he follows my gaze; he just smiles and nods. I take this time to slip out of the room, "I'll be outside if you need anything."

As I sit on my unkept bed, the exhaustion hits me, and I let my head fall against it with a thud; making his unmistakable scent flutter into the air. Herbs and musk. I've officially crossed into creepy stalker territory, as I bury my face into 'his pillow, basking in his scent. But what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? Just me.

I hear the water splash, assuming Anders is done with his bath. And I quickly scurry across the room to my desk, occupying my time by pretending to read. "Are you hungry?" I call out

"I could eat," he says, his voice treading closer.

I rise from the chair and turn to him. He's utterly gorgeous. No feathers, no ugly coat, just his green trousers and his tattered linen shirt, clean thanks to Orana. His dirty blond hair free from it's band, wet and framing his elongated face. He has to know he's not ugly. He has to know what he's doing to me.

Two scenarios play out in my mind. One, I can either jump him and what I hope, he will follow. Or two, I jump him and scare the shit out of him and he'll reject me, again. _Maker, when did I become so bold? _I know how this will play out, though, no action for this Hawke.

I extend my arm, pointing to the bed, before I hurry out to gather him a meal. Sometimes I'm amazed at the resident dwarf, clearly recalling that dwarfs are immune to magic; but here he is, standing in front of me, tray in hand—A bowl of soup, chunk of bread, slice of cheese, and a cup of water. I grab the tray, thank him, receiving a warm chuckle as I tell him how amazing I think he is.

Anders is appreciative of the meal, as he sits on my bed devouring it with such vigor that would put my brother to shame. And I sit idly at my desk, pretending to do something worthy of my time. But my mind seems content in replaying that image of him walking out of my bath chamber; it's nothing short of one of Isabela's dirty romance novels, except I'm pretty sure those always followed by a bit of ravishing.

"Thank you, the soup was wonderful," he says.

"You should really be thanking Orana, it's was her father's recipe," I say, getting up from my chair and walking over to grab the tray. I'm about to turn and leave, when his hand grabs my forearm.

"Thank you," he says, his eyes are so sincere and I find myself wanting to get lost in them.

I set the tray down on the nightstand, before sitting beside his figure. "I'm just glad you're alright," I say, offering him a small smirk. And the stinging is back. "I should've been there... I'm sorry, I-I really should've been there for you," my voice unseemly small.

He remains silent for a moment, and the only movement between us is the creasing of his brows. "You were there… you saved my life." True, but as always there was this unnecessary need to fault myself for things that were really never my fault to begin with. It's easier this way, I reason. Or maybe I've just grown accustomed to it.

"If I had been there before, it might've never gotten so bad."

"It's not your fault, Hawke."

I unsurely smile at him. If only I hadn't been so resentful.

His face is so close to mine, and for a moment as I stare into his eyes, my feelings of want seem reciprocated. And because it's him, because of what I feel for him, I become bold and close the distance between us. I feel his body relax for a moment, before tensing; leaving me with the afterthought that maybe he enjoyed it, even for a split second.

"Hawke," he says, clutching my wrist with his hand. I snatch it away, before embarrassedly turning and bolting through the exit. And as, I make my way down the stairs, I can almost imagine him calling out to me, almost.

I told myself I wouldn't distance myself from him.

Little did I know, that by doing so meant doing what I'd hoped to prevent.

Create more.

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><p>AN: Thank you to all those who read/reviewed/followed/favorite this story. I apologize again for any grammatical or spelling errors.

I hope you have enjoyed and if you've made it this far, thanks for reading and there'll be more to come. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Bioware.

Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 3:<p>

I arrive at the Hanged Man, with the intent to lose all inhibitions. The usual patrons are not here, the ones that matter at least. So I stand myself at the bar, drowning in the 'finest' whiskey they've got.

I'm a masochist, I reason. What else can explain my explicable need to be rejected by the same man countless times. I take the mug and quickly down it's contents, enjoying the burning sensation as it travels down my throat.

Why wasn't I better at this? _Maker, must you forsake me again?_

"Hawke?" The rich accent fills my ears.

I turn my head to the side, adorned in his shiny white armor is Sebastian. Prince of Starkhaven. Brother of the Chantry. Two different titles, two different life's. I sort of envy him for having a choice, but i pity him all the same. Why must I surround myself with these men- handsome yet so troubled. I mentally throw a finger to the Maker.

"Hello, Sebastian." _Shouldn't you be off praying somewhere? _"What brings you to this fine establishment?" I quip, offering him a sly smile.

He chuckles, "I'm searching for Varric, have you by chance seen him?"

_Have I seen him? _Would I be sitting here by myself if I had?

"No, sorry."

The red lines above his eyes furrow together, and his voice treads carefully, "is there something troubling you?"

_Yes._

"No. What makes you think that?" I scoff.

"Surely a beautiful woman such as yourself would have something better to occupy her time, then… drinking."

"I came to savor the rat-flavored whiskey." I add sarcastically. My face scrunches as the amber liquid leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Maybe you can provide the services I require, then" I pop an eyebrow, and he's blushing at his unintentional innuendo. He shakes his hands, refuting the suggestion. "No, that's not what I meant. I need help finding someone."

I laugh lightly, "you'd do better to wait for Varric, then. I'm no good at recovering lost things, especially people."

"It's a small task," he reasons, and I inwardly sigh. I guess I can spare a few moments out of the day for him. Maker knows I'm not ready to go home yet. Maybe Sebastian's company will prove a reasonable distraction.

"Sure."

Five hours, a dozen or so felled bandits later, and I'm internally kicking Sebastian for bringing me along. To add to the night's festivities, the girl supposedly went home sometime in the middle of our search. So here we are. The full moon casting it's gaze against the empty streets of Hightown, and the only sounds for the moment are our footsteps as they tread upon the stone floor.

"Can you believe that? You think it's so hard to send a courtesy note?" I say, throwing my arms in disgust. _Probably just inconvenient. Bloody nobles._

Sebastian is quick to refute, "maybe they were consumed with their daughter's well being." I don't expect anything less. Sebastian has been like that since I've known him, always trying to sort the good out of any situation.

"And here I thought the point on running away, was to further yourself from the offense. Maybe she wasn't quite aware of the rules."

"An offense of an unaffectionate marriage... surely your family can relate."

There's truth to it, but mother was never one to talk about her earlier years in Kirkwall. How she had come to know and begin to love my father were beyond me; but if their affection through the years spoke true, then the risks seemed well worth it.

"Nobility can afford no scruples and we're both aware of the Chantry's stance on mages," he adds, and in this moment he seems less my friend, and more a brother of the Chantry.

When did this become a debate about my heritage, anyway. Though, if anything, he speaks the truth. Nobles and their propriety, never extended into the affairs of mages; unless to doom their sense of society.

And contrary to my original thought, I fear Sebastian and I are more alike in that we lead very contradictory lifestyles.

I am a noblewoman.

I am an apostate's daughter.

And I don't quite know which is the better choice.

But I guess the real question is... Would I be so bold as my mother for the man I love?

"I suppose, one must do what they must for love," I offer. And it's a relief to come upon the familiarity of the wooden door. "Thank you, Sebastian, for seeing me to the estate. It's good to know that there are still some gentleman in this world."

He bows gracefully, "it's been a pleasure, Hawke. And I do apologize for wasting your time."

"It wasn't a total waste. I did get fifteen sovereigns out of it," I say, jiggling the contents of my coin purse. "And I suppose you did save me from drinking myself stupid."

His eyes light up, the moonlight reflecting in those blue orbs. "About that… You sure you're alright?"

"I'll live." I counter, hoping to dodge the subject all together. The look he gives me suggests otherwise. "Goodnight, Sebastian," I hastily add, before retiring into the estate.

As I cross the foyer, the irrevocable feeling of embarrassment with just a hint of guilt hits me; making me feel queasy as I make my way up the stairs. Is it too much to hope that he stayed? The pang of disappointment hits at the reality of his disappearance.

I sigh, dropping my packs on the floor. There's no need for finesse, as I hurriedly strip out of my armor to put on my house clothes.

I place my daggers where I normally put them, on my nightstand; and I'm stopped mid way because staring at me is a necklace, the pendants ornate design attributing to it's origins.

Anders.

The one thing he leaves behind. The one thing I'd given him. I set the blades carefully on the table and pick up the necklace, gently caressing it between my palms.

My eyes blur at the implication.

_Fuck._

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><p>AN: Sorry to all those Sebastian's fans out there. I don't hate him as a character, but how am I supposed to win this game if I don't have my healer? So to me it's a simple decision: keep my healer, and say bye-bye to a rogue I rarely use. :)

Anyway, I apologize for this chapter. I first wrote it and it was barely two pages long, so I tried to expand upon it. Hopefully it's not as horrible as I feel it is. If there are any grammar/spelling mistakes, please forgive me. RL is kicking my arse! And I don't have as much time as I had before to be so meticulous with my writing; but I wanted to put something out because it's been so long since I last updated.

So for those of you that are reading this. I hoped you enjoyed the story thus far. And there is more to come. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Bioware. Promise.

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

Pain is the perception of the subjective; varying among the physical, emotional part of the being. I'd like to think at this point of my life, pain and I have become futile lovers, fighting for control. But certainty admits the falseness to the statement: I have no control.

In that time not so long ago, when the raider's blade came acquainted with my flesh, it was only appropriate mine did the same. The victory seemed fleeting as the pain from the cut ripped through my side. But in time, like many other things, it began to fade; and fade it did, when it became but a figment of mind. Only when my armor came off did I notice the true extent of the damage.

And in matter of minutes the old wound breathes new life, seething at the recipient with new found fluctuations of pain. I grasp at my side, and my teeth grind as the pain shoots like lighting through my body.

Merrill looks at me contritely, her small voice overwhelmed with concern. "You should probably see Anders."

I internally winch at the name. Anders and I in the same room, daunting to envision the outcome. Though, if anything Merrill's right. This wound is bordering the territory of 'what in the Maker is that' or at least that's what I'd imagine people would say if they glanced at it.

"I'd imagine so," I say, with much reluctance. I haven't quite spoken to him since the incident; and it's getting apparent that this decision to avoid him like the plague goes against everything I've set out to do.

"Would you like me to accompany you," Merrill asks, and I smile at her sweetness. I wouldn't mind her company, surprisingly though, I dismiss her away. If I'm going to do this at all, I figure it's going to be alone; without the distraction of a cute elf with a penance to slit wrists.

Merrill trots along in the opposite direction, her little ponytails bouncing with each step. I shake my head. _I hope she doesn't get lost._

Anders' clinic isn't far off, and as I make my way inside I'm somewhat greeted by his assistants. They offer me a seat near the far corner before seeking frivolous things to occupy their time. I can hear their whispers, and if I were more of an insecure person I would've taken it to heart. But I've never cared what anyone has thought about me; except for one, and he seems to pretend I don't exist at times.

I sigh, and bury my head within the palms of my hands. The pain is overwhelming any good senses I might've had.

"Do I even want to know?" he asks rhetorically, a hint of glibness in his tone. He shakes his head, as he looks down solemnly against my figure. I stare at him glumly, and manage a small smirk. He's still wearing that stupid coat. I surely believed it had met it's end a month ago.

"You should've seen the other guy," I counter, and his eyebrows quirk in response. I shrug my shoulders before attempting to rise from the chair. It's more difficult than before, and I struggle as the pain comes full circle. Anders is quick to offer his assistance.

As a hand slips its way behind my back, the apprehensiveness is there through the closeness; and as I rise from the seat, the hand never leaves, only lingers. I try not to read into things these days. If anything, Anders has been the embodiment of professionalism; but as the hand slips lower, I can't help but redact that previous thought.

I'm lead somewhat away from curious glances, and he leaves to gather various supplies from a far cabinet. Bottles and flasks tinged in various colors, and I wonder why so many.

He returns and gestures at my shirt, and as I lift it up enough for him to see without exposing too much, his face scrunches. "I need to disinfect it…" he says matter-of-factly, before grabbing the bluish tinged bottle and shaking it, "this may hurt a bit."

I lay on my side against the wooden table, and as the liquid is poured onto my skin my nose scrunches and my eyes naturally tear up. "Gah! What was that?"

"An antiseptic… it will prevent the wound from getting further infected. "

"And magic can't do that?"

"Yes and no," he says. "Yes, if you would have come to me sooner, and no, because of the extent of the wound. Magic is limited in the sense that it cannot heal everything. If you would've waited any longer, the infection could've spread. You're lucky Hawke, you could've potentially died."

"But I'm not…" _thanks to you._

"No you're not," he says and his eyes downcast, before his hands illuminate with the familiar glow. It envelopes. The heat radiating to my side, until the pain that was there is just a memory.

His hands drop to his side and he quickly leaves, replacing his supplies in the appropriate places. My fingers absently trail over the side of my ribs, no reminisce of the wound. I sit up, bringing my legs to dangle off the side and tug at my shirt to pull it down.

Anders returns, faintly smiling. "So why did you wait to see me?" he asks. It's hard to look at him directly, and it's even harder to come up with a good excuse; even the truth seems a bit obtuse.

"I was unsure…" and he looks at me questioningly, "…whether or not you were busy," I manage, internally cringing at the lame attempt. "You don't need me to come to you for every little scratch and bump."

Anders nods his head from side to side, "silly Hawke," he teases, teeth shining white through his grin. "Don't think that you can't come to me with any problems… no matter how little."

Doubtful. "It's been known for me to get caught in a trifle here and there. You sure your offer still stands? Because I'm pretty sure you could manage without my repeated visits."

"Hmm… maybe. You can be quite the distraction." And his glibness fades the instant he realizes his mistake. He knows he's said too much. But I remain calm, impassive to his comment; Even though a big part of me is screaming to say something inappropriate. I surely blame Isabela for that.

He takes a step forward, his face in all senses serious, and I sigh. Here it comes. The argument of why he shouldn't have done this, said that, or even why their can never be an 'us'... just a 'you' and 'me'.

"Hawke…" his hands trail intimately across the back of my shoulders, the gentlest of pressure as his fingers try to nestle into the skin. "I-I…" and I realize that maybe this will be the opposite of disaster. Until his attention is slighted by his assistant. Something seemingly enough to draw him further away.

He clears his throat, "I've got to go." I nod. _Of course. I will forever be the one laid on the outskirts of your life. _And he leaves the small space, his coat flapping as the urgency of someone else's life hangs in the balance.

I stand slowly, trying to balance myself firmly to the ground, and I take one last glance in his direction as I move towards the outside of the clinic.

The heaviness is there felt within my chest, and like the pain that occurred with the cut, it is only temporary.

Except the memory of the assault remains. My mind infected with lingering possibilities.

_"__I..." _

_Hope. _

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><p>AN: OMG! I'm amazed that I actually was able to update.

Thanks to all of you that have reviewed/favorited and I apologize for not replying to your reviews.

Hope you all enjoy!


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